Cushion
by The Cheshire Cheese
Summary: Chakotay considers cosmetic surgery. Seven talks him out of it. (Post-"Endgame." Humor, fluff, drabble.)


**A/N: I wrote this a year or two ago, and only decided to edit and post it tonight.**

**I don't own "Voyager."**

* * *

Chakotay regarded his reflection with a scolding stare. Having just exited the sonic shower, he was wearing only a towel, and he didn't even know what he needed that for; the only other person living in the house was Seven, and six months into their engagement, she wouldn't be shocked by the sight of him naked. And at forty-one, he was in _amazing_ shape for his age. The muscles on his arms and chest were perfectly toned. His face showed almost no sign of wrinkles. His now-dyed hair had begun to gray prematurely back when he was in his thirties, so that didn't count. He could have passed for a holo-star, if he could only get rid of that god-damned belly fat.

It wasn't a pot-belly by any means—it probably wasn't even noticeable to the average person—but it was definitely convex. Once, long ago, his midsection had been perfectly flat. The extra weight had begun to rear its ugly head in his mid-twenties, when he was a Lieutenant Commander. The slimming black Starfleet uniforms had always done an impeccable job at hiding it. In the Maquis, his leather vest and weapons belt had inadvertently doubled as a girdle. He'd always been slightly self-conscious when friends saw him in his pajamas, or boxing gear, or anything else that showed his full figure. What made it so frustrating was that _underneath_ the jellyrolls was a well-developed set of abs, as strong as his biceps and pecks. He liked imagining the look on Seven's face if she could see them. But she couldn't, because they were eternally buried under centimeters of jiggle.

He tried sucking it in, just to see what it would look like. Pretty nice. But even now, you still couldn't see any muscle structure. He let the breath out, allowing the avalanche of squish to roll back into place. He'd tried virtually every natural means of shedding the weight, nothing worked. Dieting, exercise, the rest of his body was _perfect_, but losing the "baby fat" on his abdomen and cheeks was like trying to scrub the tattoo off his face.

Chakotay had always distained the idea of cosmetic surgery. His fake hair color notwithstanding, he'd always thought of it as somewhat sacramental to tamper with one's natural body just for the sake of appearances. But now he was beginning to understand the sentiment. When there was just one, stupid little flaw keeping you from perfection…

He heard the front door chime. Seven was back from picking strawberries with his (and soon to be her) nieces. She poked her head around the doorway, and greeted him with that mild smile that always made him melt. "Good morning."

He returned her smile, and moved to greet her with a kiss. "Good morning."

Since moving to their new home on this green planet, she'd looked more human than ever, letting her hair down and dressing in the casual, colorful clothes that were the fashion of this colony. Today her hair was in a loose ponytail. Her flawless figure was shown off by a turquoise tank top, and a colorfully patterned skirt. Under her arm she carried a bucket of tantalizing looking strawberries.

"How was it?" Chakotay asked.

"Enjoyable. Your nieces are exemplary guides in strawberry hunting." She broke away from him to take the bucket to the kitchen. "I have a new experiment in mind: filled strawberries. We can test them after dinner. If they're adequate, I can make a batch when we visit Sekaya and Ned next week."

Ned was Sekaya's husband, a Navajo whose colony had been displaced along with Chakotay's by the Cardassians. Ned had also, indirectly, launched Chakotay into this existential crisis about his tummy. Chakotay had boxed Ned the previous evening (an amateur fight just for kicks). It had been close, but Ned had won, with a blow to Chakotay's gut that knocked the winds clean out of him. Ned felt bad afterwards, and bought Chakotay a drink, which led to several drinks, and soon Chakotay and his brother-in-law were having a chummy, drunken conversation where they admitted things that they normally wouldn't in polite company. Chakotay confessed that when punching Ned, he'd been imagining his least favorite politician (a schmuck senator from Mars who'd called for a harsh punishment on the Maquis). And Ned had admitted that he'd been compelled to punch Chakotay's belly, after watching it "wobble" throughout fight. Ned, for the record, had _perfectly_ chiseled abs.

Changing the subject for himself, Chakotay asked casually, "What do you 'stuff' in the strawberries?"

"There are several options. But I'm leaning towards softened cream cheese, with chocolate interiors."

_Spirits, shit, no! _First all the frybread at the Powwow the other day, and now this. He was sure his ancestors could now hear the silent, suffering cries of his abs, eternally entrapped in a prison of blubber.

Seven apparently saw some hesitation in his face. "Is cream cheese permissible? If you dislike that combination, I can—"

"No! No, it sounds delicious." He moved self-consciously out of the bathroom, and headed towards his dresser to get some clothes on. "I was just thinking," he rummaged through the drawer for his clothes. "I might save most of the sweets for you and the others. I want to get in better shape. Excuse me," he undid the towel, and began tugging on his underpants.

Seven's blue eyes moved up and down his body, while he changed. "You seem in perfect health to me."

"I am," he pulled on a pair of brown pants. "But there's always room for improvement."

"In what sense?"

He fastened his pants shut. "Seven, you wouldn't say no to a six-pack, would you?"

Her confusion only increased. "I can barely tolerate one glass of wine, and I've never enjoyed the taste of beer."

"No, sweetheart. I'm talking about abs. Muscles. Abdominal muscles. You know, like Ned has?"

"Ned." Her eyebrow and implant turned up. "You believe you would have won your sparing competition if your muscles had been better developed?"

How was she not getting it? She knew about looks, infatuation.

"_No_. I'm perfectly happy with how strong I am. I'm just talking about appearances. You might've noticed I've got," he glanced down at his bare midriff, then finally gathered up a handful of flab. "_this_."

"I have," she said. "It's expected for humans to carry excess body fat on certain areas. It is a survival trait."

"Maybe I've got it wrong, but it's also normal for human females—humans in _general_—to prefer…a body like Ned's."

"Is it?" she cocked her head. "B'Elanna has always seemed perfectly content with Tom, and he hardly resembles Ned. This morning, your niece Nakoma expressed interest in a 'geek' at her university, whose physique resembles that of a starving Alverian spider-mouse. Holonovels and romance-vids hardly dictate humans' preferences."

He chuckled, painfully aware of his belly visibly moving. "Look," he locked eyes with her. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel better. But I'm thinking of getting some work done around there. You know I _have_ a nice set of abdominals under here. Wouldn't you like to see it?"

Her eyes moved around his midriff. "I'm not certain I would."

He stared at her. "Why not?"

"I'm picturing it. I feel as if I'm imagining a wire bed frame, with no mattress." She crossed the room, and brought her hand over his soft stomach. "I would not trade my favorite cushion for a…concrete floor."

God, she was serious.

"What if I just lost half of this? Just enough to be flat? It might not be a cushion, but maybe a…sleeping bag? I probably wouldn't get so many gut-punches in my fights if this thing wasn't hanging out like a miniature punching bag."

"Your tattoo draws just as much attention from your opponents. Perhaps you'd like me to sand it off, to minimize injuries to your frontal lobe." Still looking at his belly, she added, "You once told me this feature was an advantage in your fights. You allowed your opponents to become distracted by it, and while they were busy punching your midsection, you'd get them in the head."

That was true. If he shed the gut, he'd lose one of his greatest advantages. But also one of his biggest embarrassments.

"You really like this thing, better than a perfect six-pack?"

"I've had my fill of _perfection_," she said bitterly.

_Oh. _

"What initially drew me to you," Seven explained, "was how _un-Borg_ you appeared. Your facial art, your natural muscle structure, and your," she popped her eyebrow, searching for the right word, then finally scooped up a handful of fat. "_this_."

"You've told me you appreciated how human I was. I didn't realize that included the—_everything_."

She wrapped her arms around him, and pulled herself against him. "I should have told you years ago," she said. "On Voyager I took in every detail of the ship and its crew, including its crew's figures. One of the many things that drew me to you was your unique form, this specific combination of muscle and fat. It is reminiscent of an Andorian snuggle-badger."

He smiled, while she kissed his neck softly. He brought his hands up to hold her, to give her a proper "snuggle."

"You know," he warned, "that 'cushion's' only going to get bigger the older I get."

"Then I will have a beanbag."

Laughing again, he finally surrendered, "A-alright. You've talked me out of it. No surgery, no six-pack."

"The only treatment this abdomen requires," she brought her Borg hand back to his stomach, "is intense tickling."

"_NO!_"

He pulled away as fast as he could, but not fast before her metal fingertip charged him like a torpedo. She backed him against the wall, treating his "cushion" like her Astrometrics console.

* * *

**A/N: Two things inspired this odd ficlett. One, re-watching "The Fight," where it is hilariously obvious that Chakotay does **_**not**_** have a six-pack. On a more serious note, I've also seen some cruel and brainless comments online, where people bashed Jennifer Lien, Robert Beltran, Kate Mulgrew, or other actors for "getting fat" after "Voyager," or already being "podgy" on the show, when all the actors did was have ordinary, non-Hollywood bodies. So I suppose this one-shot might be part of the "real beauty" campaign. **

**When I will update "Sleepwalking," "The Silver Bird," my "Casablanca" fic, or any other story that's actually **_**about**_** something, I honestly can't say. I need to be in a film noir mood to work on "Silver Bird" or "Poor Devils;" I won't allow myself to touch "Playing With Fire" or start any new stories until I finish at least ONE of the current ones; and I've taken a sacred vow to never work on "Drunken Fantasy" while sober. However, I **_**am**_** in a "Voyager" mood again, because I'm going to an anime convention next week where I'll cosplay as B'Elanna Torres. I'm hoping this mood will inspire me to update one of my "Voyager" stories. But life's been busy, and I've been trying to focus on original writing projects. This may be a disturbing revelation to some people, but I'm actually an adult in my mid twenties, for whom fan-fiction is a VERY guilty pleasure. **


End file.
